Pulsate
by Odyssion
Summary: It's a little game Kakashi likes to play, counting the heartbeats of his victims before they died.


**Pulsate**

_Disclaimer:_ This is a purely non-profit story written for entertainment purposes only. The characters of Naruto belong to much richer people.

_Author's Notes:_ Kakashi-centric story on said jounin's thoughts every time he kills. A little morbid, I suppose; no pairings and lots of pondering.

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He liked to count the heartbeats before they faded, like the hollow echoing whistle of a departing train. It was his private fascination, wondering how long it would take for the soul to be gone entirely, leaving only the vacant shell of the body. Sometimes he fancies that he can even see the transparent outlines ghosting away like vapour – and bets with himself whether or not they'll get to heaven, even though he doesn't believe in an afterlife (at least not for himself). He'll never know, of course, whether he was right or wrong, but that isn't really the point. He didn't care to know because he didn't care. Death had become merely a game to him now.

If he remembers correctly, he had first started counting the night his father died. Died – killed himself, to be accurate. He remembers so many pairs of hands, men's hands – large and rough and gentle – holding him back. He never found out whose hands they were.

"Don't, Kakashi!"

He pushes through anyway, intent on preventing his father from the lunacy. Who cared about honour? He just wanted a father. Was that too much to ask?

But he was only greeted by red – pools of blood and guts and coils of intestines slithering malignantly on the floor. They try to trip him as he approaches, try to make him puke, but there is only his father in his eyes. When he finally reaches him, Sakumo turns weary eyes to his son and there is only the sound of heartbeats between them.

_Ba-bump… bump…_

Silence.

Three soft thumps, and his father was no longer looking at him. He gently closes the saddened eyes, understanding the message perfectly.

_Kaka…shi…_

---

Left side intact, Obito's heart pounded mercilessly in his ears – **one, two, three, four, five** – loud, slow beats that nearly drove him insane. When he dies (**eleven**), ever-friendly smile still on his face, the silence does.

His sensei had been too far away for him to count. He thinks that six is a fitting number. _Ko-no-ha-ga-ku-re._

Every mission after that is a new count; he makes bets with himself as to how many heartbeats he'll feel before the target dies. He hopes for a few, because that means less suffering; he yearns for many, because that means a new record. He wonders if he can kill and count zero. If they hadn't held him back for so long, perhaps he would've counted more than three for his father. Did he suffer, he wonders, more than he had to? Out of Obito's erratic fluctuations, he couldn't get a message at all. But for a long time, eleven was the outstanding record.

Then there had been that boy.

Hands that had killed many but were as untainted as the snow. He hated how the pale face, effeminate and flawless, had such a look of surprise as he had plunged his hand into what he had thought was Zabuza. Kakashi took pride in his assassinations, and every look of surprise before that had been a sort of high, a confirmation that he was good enough to shock his opponents. This surprised face, so willingly thrown into the path of death, irritates him. It makes him feel guilty.

As a cold hand grips his own, he begins to count. He counts because there is nothing else he can do, and because it is his way of honouring the dead. For every name, there is a number. One, two… he got all the way to 16 this time before there was only silence.

One beat for every year of life. And one for Zabuza.

He wants to take his hand away when there is nothing left to count, but the grip on his wrist is insistent – loyal even beyond death. In retrospect, Zabuza would probably not have hacked Haku's body, but it wasn't a chance he was willing to take. He places the body down gently, painfully closing wide, accusing eyes.

_Children die far too young._

---

It is not until years later that he realizes the truth of his statement.

He can never find his own pulse. For an (former) ANBU member with detailed knowledge of the human systems, it is something of a mockery. There is only coldness that infuses his veins, the calculating numbness when he adds all the numbers together – all the missions and assassinations through all the years, tallied into one compact digit.

Nine hundred ninety-nine – only one shy of a grand.

Sasuke had died when he was eight, and Kakashi had died when he was ten… figuratively speaking.

Obito had died when he was thirteen, and Haku had died when he was fifteen… literally speaking.

He wonders how many heartbeats his spirit would eke out before dispersing into nothing. He wonders what his heart would try to say. Kakashi's never been one for dramatic endings – life had enough melodrama without a dramatic death – but he also wonders if his killer would be kind enough to count his heartbeats and carry them on. He doesn't want to be lost to silence, but as he slips on his mask, he realizes his heart has nothing to say.

When Sasuke deserts them and Naruto's a wreck and Sakura can't stop crying, he realizes there _is_ something. His deranged heart, tired from all the years of sustenance, would send out three beats. Monotonous and sincere, he'll hope that they understand the message he can never bring himself to say.

_I'm sorry._

Familiarity breeds contempt, and he returns to the painted porcelain mask again without emotion, donning an over-used disguise. There is only the sound of silent footfalls – lithe as a shadow – and the invisible trajectory of an unseen weapon that strikes true. The grim reaper bids him an unspoken hello, thanks him for the fare, and Kakashi starts the mental slot machine.

_One (**one thousand**), two (**one thousand one**), three (**one thousand two**)…_

He hopes he never stops counting.

**END**

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End file.
